


Ending the Stars

by cgner



Series: Key Limes Universe [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Celebrities, F/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-22 13:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cgner/pseuds/cgner
Summary: Five times Prince James proposes to Oscar-winner Lily Evans, and one time he doesn’t. Sequel to Key Limes.





	Ending the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> I've told plenty of people that I don't really do sequels. This is true. However, I also say "never say never," and this is why. Given this year's royal wedding, how could I *not* write something more? My original fic basically came true! That's pretty awesome, and I always knew that if I did explore this universe more, it would center around their engagement. So, ta-da!
> 
> I guess you don't absolutely need to have read Key Limes before reading this fic, but it will make more sense if you have. 
> 
> Cheers to Karaline, my beta extraordinaire, who always pinpoints what's not working and helps me figure it out. I adore and cherish you.

# the first

The first time James proposes, it’s over the phone.

“Three months of dating,” Lily drawls, eyeing the tabloid headline on her laptop, “and they’ve already resorted to blatantly lying about us getting engaged.”

“They’re not thinking long-term,” he says. His voice is low and amused, but still has the tinny resonance from being compressed and hurled 5,000 miles across an ocean and a continent. “I mean, when we hit six months, where are they going to go?”

“My secret pregnancy, obviously.”

“Ah, yes, that’s next, isn’t it? How cliché.”

“Then when the baby doesn’t show, they’ll naturally report I’ve had a tragic miscarriage.”

“I see. We’ll be absolutely devastated, of course. They’ll say we’ve gone on a lovely holiday to recuperate…and then?”

“Celebrity threesome.”

His voice tightens as he struggles to contain his laughter. As Lily has learned, Prince James has a real commitment to finishing bits.

Which is just as well because so does she.

“And then what?” he says.

“I die and get replaced by a robot.”

His laughter bursts through the phone loud enough that she pulls it away from her ear.

“I miss you,” he sighs.

“I miss you, too.” She pushes her laptop down her sofa and curls up in the corner, one arm tucked around her knees. She’s switched off all the hotel room lamps so she can better gaze through the window at the sprawling sea of lights in LA. “It’s only two more weeks.”

If she says that enough, maybe her heart will stop aching every time she talks to him. Or texts him. Or thinks about him.

Christ, she’s got it bad. It’d be pathetic if she weren’t so disgustingly happy.

“You danced magnificently with Ellen,” he says. “I was dead jealous.”

“She’s going to be outraged when she reads this headline and realizes we haven’t invited her to our non-existent wedding.”

“I’ll be sure to send her a fruit basket as an apology for the oversight.”

“You and your princely manners.”

There’s still a weirdness here, a disconnect between His Royal Highness Prince James—the one waving from the steps of Buckingham Palace—and her James, the private James, the one who scolds his new cat when he refuses to be taught to fetch things.

She stretches out a toe and nudges the bottom of her laptop, the screen glow casting her bare feet in blue.

Three months and they’re already printing garbage like _Prince James Pops the Question._

She had press attention before—winning Oscars will do that for you, at least temporarily—but that’s nothing like the deluge of the past three months.

A paparazzo broke into her hotel room last week.

They caught him before he managed to escape the hotel, and he didn’t take anything but pictures, but still. Her _room_. 

The hotel moved her to this suite before she could even ask.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” she asks, trying to pitch her voice lighter than she feels. “People speculating about our nuptials every week?”

“We should start a pool. And by we I mean Mary because she’ll help us rig it so we can cheat everyone.”

“The people on Key Limes have probably already placed their bets on the date.”

“And the dress and the flowers, I imagine.”

She sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Then, after a beat, he adds, “It doesn’t have to be like this, you know.”

He pauses.

She waits for the punch line.

It’s a long wait.

He finishes, “Not if we got married.”

God. He’s such a shit.

But it’s just as well he’s dicking around because she doesn’t actually want to acknowledge the awful side-effects of dating an otherwise delightful man, one who makes her beam so much that every talk show host gives her shit about it.

“Are you asking?” she says.

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation. “Truth be told, I paid _The Sun_ to run that headline so we could have this very conversation.”

“You hired a tabloid to propose to me?”

“Well. It seemed original. Hasn’t been done before, you know. And you know how much I care about originality.”

She’s smiling again because he’s always making her smile, and _fuck_ , her chest physically aches. With longing, with affection, with awe that he can inspire these feelings in her. And, yes, with lust. Although admittedly that ache is centered somewhere other than her chest.

He’s a little shit and he’s _her_ little shit and there’s a reason they get along so well.

“So this is it?” she says. “You’re officially asking me to marry you?”

“Yes, Lily. I am.”

“For real. You’re proposing to me. Right now. On the phone.”

“I’m so serious I should be adopted by the Blacks.”

“Uh huh,” she says, letting uncertainty slip in. “But like, really? Legitimately?”

“Really really.”

“Right. Er.” She sits up straighter, tucking her legs under her arse. “James, that’s a bit…”

“Early, I know. But you, and I, and all of this—it just feels right, you know?”

“Yeah…yeah, I do know.” She tugs her top lip between her teeth, humming slightly. “You’re right. This is right, and why not, you know—when it’s right, it’s _right_ ….” She lets out a breath, waiting _just_ long enough.... “I accept.”

There’s another pause from him.

A distant siren wails somewhere nearby, no doubt struggling to weave through LA gridlock.

“Er,” he says. And then, “Seriously?”

“Hm?”

“You’re not actually agreeing—you’re not…”

She says nothing, biting back a grin.

“Lily—”

“James,” she says, her voice jumping an octave, “were you—were you not actually asking?”

Another beat.

She’s got him.

“Um—I think this got a little—I mean, I wasn’t _really_ —”

“James Edward William Fleamont,” she scolds. “You proposed to me but you had the audacity not to _mean it_?”

“Er, not as such…no.”

“I can’t believe you’d ask that if you didn’t _mean_ it, what is _wrong_ with you—”

“I thought we were doing a bit!”

“This isn’t the sort of thing you do a bit about!”

“Fuck. Fuck! I’m so sorry, Lily.”

She sniffs loudly and swallows. “Right. Right. I’m going to hang up. I can’t—I can’t talk to you right now.”

“Lily, no, I’m sorry, I’m such a tit, please don’t hang up—”

“Promise me,” she demands. “Promise me and I’ll forgive you.”

“Yeah, whatever you want, I won’t ask again—”

“Promise me we can invite Ellen and Portia and give out fruit baskets as wedding gifts to everyone.”

This time his pause is one of comprehension.

“Oh, fuck off, that’s not even fair.”

“Of course it is!” she says through her giggles, her arm clutched against her chest. “You started it.”

“Yeah, but—I was _obviously_ joking.”

“You said, and I quote, that you should be adopted by the Blacks you’re so serious.”

“I’m not the Oscar winner, okay? You’re much more convincing than me! Plus like half of what I say is nonsense anyway, and you know it.”

She smiles into the phone. “I do know it.”

“Yeah,” he says warmly. “You do, don’t you?” He gives a sharp laugh. “Fuck, but you’re good, Ms. Evans.”

Her heart flutters. Christ, she’s in deep. “Should be Dame Evans soon, though, right?”

“Come home and talk to Mum about it yourself.”

Mum.

The Queen.

The bloody QUEEN. OF. ENGLAND.

Who is very funny and kind and quirky in a bizarrely sitcom sort of way.

Again, that disconnect—so tricky.

“Put me on her agenda for when I get back, yeah?”

So far Lily’s tried to avoid the palace because the press crawl around the property like ants outside a biscuit tin. James, for the most part, is sly and quick enough to sneak away unnoticed. His mum, on the other hand, has professed to be too old for those antics.

Also she loves a scene.

Wonderful as it would be to see her, Lily can’t ignore that heading to the palace in plain sight is just begging for more insane, speculative headlines.

And probably more break-ins.

Lovely.

“In two weeks, yeah?” he says hopefully.

With four short words and a loving voice, her anxieties slip away.

The palace has the press, yeah. But it also has her James.

“Yeah,” she says with a grin. “Just two more weeks.”

* * *

 

# the second

The second time he does it via text.

She’s in Toronto at the time. Fortunately it’s a shorter shoot—this is only her supporting actress effort for the year—but after a couple weeks she’s dreaming about James roughly every other night, and texting him obsessively during the day between takes.

One rainy afternoon she’s on the sofa bed in her trailer, reading up on some of the bizarre laws and etiquette rules governing British royalty. It’s for the part, of course, because Lily is a committed actress dead-set on earning another suite of trophies next award season. Even if it means taunting the press by playing royalty in this film.

Oh, how they’ve loved sneaked set shots of her donning a tiara.

Tiaras, incidentally, must be worn at a 45 degree angle, and may only be worn after six in the evening, and only by married women.

These are silly rules, but they have nothing on some of the other, weirder things on record.

After one of them makes her snort, she texts James: _British Royals can’t play Monopoly?_

As usual, his reply dots appear within seconds.

_doesn’t seem like i’ve missed out with that one tbh_

_since it was only invented to prove that monopolies were bad and everyone seems to forget that??_

_You should tell McGonagall you know that. I think she’d be impressed enough to give you a gold star._

_unlikely since she’s the one who told me that when i found out i couldn’t play_

_If anything, I’d think the board game you shouldn’t be allowed to play is Risk._

_too true_

_we already played that in real life and it was possibly the worst thing ever done by anyone_

_will implement ban on risk when i am king_

He's a bit funny about his position. He jokes about it, mostly. He doesn't seem to take it too seriously, which makes a bit of sense since their monarchs these days rarely exert any actual power.

But they could.

He could, eventually. He could do loads. And that's not even including all the soft influence he holds as the dashing, charming prince who mostly spends his time on charity work.

All that raw, serious power, and he texts her things like this: _nowadays the ban on shellfish bothers me the most_

One of her hands flails up into the air, only to return to type furiously: _Seriously??? More than the fact that you can’t vote??_

_you only get to vote once in a while but i could be enjoying crab every day!_

_sometimes you get to bang on crabs with a mallet??_

_i imagine it sounds like sebastian playing those shellfish drums in under the sea_

Lily slaps a hand over her mouth as she laughs to keep from bothering her dozing colleague in the neighboring trailer section. He’s already scolded her three times for ruining his precious naps.

James has been the cause every time.

This is just the distraction she needed, actually. Before Monopoly she read about royal wedding rules and started thinking about whether she would want to follow them, but they’ve only been dating for six months and it’s too early to think about that stuff because _yes_ she loves James, but he’s still a bloody prince, and becoming a member of the royal family would mean giving up the perfect career she’s worked so unbelievably hard to build.

It’s quickly becoming a well-worn tread in her mind.

She tries to tell herself again that there’s no point stressing about whether she can deal with always wearing a hat to formal events because it might not even be a problem.

She writes: _At least you’re a bloke. I know if you had to wear all those dress hats to events that you’d abdicate._

These are the strange quirks one picks up about significant others after six months. Especially when the six months include part of a winter where said significant other would rather suffer frostbitten ears than cover up his head, despite many arguments about the stupidity of said stance.

_hats make your head all sweaty_

_it’s insanitary_

She shakes her head. _Another custom for you to change._

_oh most definitely_

_i’ve gotta say i’m impressed. you’re really learning your royal rules_

_I was curious why my character kept switching between a tiara and a hat, and now I’m spiraling on Wikipedia._

_my ancestors seem to have spent more time on headwear etiquette than they did on governing_

_although now that i think about it, if my ancestors had spent twice as much time on headwear, then maybe we wouldn’t have had time to colonize everyone_

_Maybe I can convince them to turn this movie into a rewritten version of history where that’s true._

_Although I would really hate to have to wear even more absurd hats. If the hats get too ridiculous I think Americans might be turned off of this film._

_wait no_

_you know what_

_here’s what we should do so you can rewrite the movie and still sell tickets_

Lily can’t fight the smile off her face.

_What?_

_what if_

_at the premiere of this film_

_you revealed_

_that you were, in fact, a princess_

Lily raises an eyebrow at her phone.

_But I’m not._

_no but you could be_

_if we secretly eloped before opening night_

_think how many tickets you’d sell to this movie if it featured an actual princess playing a princess_

And then there are things he maybe shouldn’t joke about, if only because she already spends enough time stewing on this topic. Obviously he can only go the marriage route, and if she doesn't want to go that direction with him, the sooner they break up the better.

But how could she break up with a boy who wants to mimic a cartoon lobster?

As always, the best way to respond to a joke is to roll with it.

_Is this you asking me to marry you again?_

_i mean i’ve already done it before and once you’ve said it the words fall right off your tongue_

_We’re texting._

_the metaphorical tongue, lily, work with/marry me_

Lily presses her phone against her forehead. The heater hums steadily in the corner, keeping out the Canadian winter chill.

After another breath, she picks up the phone and texts: _Your proposal is invalid if you haven’t received the monarch’s approval. -Royal Marriages Act of 1772_

_damn you’re good_

_you’ve caught me_

_oh my alarm just went off. did you take your vitamins??_

And he’s back to the boyfriend she’s sacrificed even more of her privacy for, and with good reason.

She swears and digs into her purse to find her pill stash. As it’s too cold here to go outside much, her vitamin D has tanked, and James insists on mothering her about it. Rightfully so because she is shit at remembering things like this.

Yes, he jokes about marriage, but only because she hasn’t told him it stresses her out. He’s so sweet in so many other ways that it makes the occasional freak-out about a possible, not-for-years real proposal absolutely worth it.

* * *

 

# the third

The third time his proposal comes through a proxy.

Lily is blissfully back in England where she belongs. In James’s bed, where she belongs even more, lazing on a glorious Sunday morning. He was exceptionally generous the night before and it’s left its mark (okay, one of many) in the form of a languid smile she can’t seem to shake.

While his hair always begs her hands to dig in and ruffle it up—and she is not alone in this, she’s read online about plenty of girls desperate to do the same—it’s never quite so desperate for her attention as it is first thing in the morning, especially when the sun is streaming in through the gap in the curtains, alighting his head from the side.

She gives in and sits up, reaching out to feather her fingers into that gloriously disarrayed hair. He’s propped up next to her, pillows behind his back, and leans into her touch.

“You take after your cat,” she tells him fondly.

“He takes after me,” James corrects. He hastily folds the newspaper he was reading and tosses it sideways, where it flaps to the floor.

Yes, a newspaper. Because Prince James, modern era royalty, cannot seem to get the hang of things like cell phones or tablets or even the Amazon Echo his dad bought him. He’s been stuck getting his news the old-fashioned way ever since he connected the device to the TV. He insists that no matter what he says, he can’t persuade Alexa to turn it on.

“I love you,” she murmurs, withdrawing her hand. “You hopeless Luddite.”

“I love you, too, sexy.”

She laughs as he turns his head toward hers, then bestows her with a kiss.

He adds, “I do think you could come up with a slightly more endearing nickname.”

She smiles against his lips. “Would you prefer star boy?”

She’s rewarded by his face flushing scarlet.

“McGonagall says I can stop with the stars once we—” He jerks back, his face downcast as more blood flows into his cheeks. His hand clutches at the edge of the duvet.

Unlike about ninety percent of what he says, this does not appear to be the set-up to a joke.

Frowning slightly, she places her hand on his in a silent question. He shakes his head and turns his palm up to meet hers.

“Ignore me,” he says as their fingers intertwine. “Talking shit, like always.”

“You were not.”

“Yeah, no, it’s not—it’s kind of complicated—”

“Now you are talking shit.”

“I rue the day you learned how to spot my lies.”

As if she’s spent the last year dutifully studying his pattern of speech. As if he’s not just an open book, but an open library.

“I don’t rue the day we met at all,” she says.

“Christ. I love you, you know?”

“I do, but don’t try to distract—”

Algernon bounds onto her lap from the floor. Sneaky little bugger—she didn’t even see him creep alongside the bed.

Nor has she previously seen the small black box dangling from between his teeth.

As he drops it onto the duvet spread over her legs, several things happen simultaneously:

The first: She sees a small loop of string attached to the box and deduces that James put it on.

The second: She realizes there is only one thing that tends to come in black velvet boxes small enough to fit in her palm.

The third: James cries, “Algernon, no!”

One second later, Lily’s eyes go wide. Her heart triples its pace. At the same moment, James snatches the box from her lap.

Three seconds after the box landed in her lap, she turns, stunned, to James.

His attention, however, is on his cat. “I wasn’t ready!”

He claims he wasn’t ready. But, quite objectively, he was.

He had the box.

He had _the box_.

And no one has just the box.

Algernon stands on her legs, his claws softened against her skin by the duvet. He regards James evenly, his tail swishing, in the strangest stand-off Lily has ever witnessed.

“James?” she ventures.

It’s not a squeak. It simply has faint elements of one.

Undertones, really.

Subtle undertones.

He shoves the box under the duvet on his far side. The duvet he insisted she pick out, as it happens, and she went for a cheery blue. Had that been a missed clue to what was coming?

“I didn’t mean it!” he squawks.

At least he’s talking to her now, and not the non-human participant of this event.

“But you were ready,” she says.

“I was _not_!”

“You _have_ ”—she thrusts a pointed finger at the hidden box—“a ring!”

“I mean, fine, _technically_ —”

“With a special cat-carrying string on the box!”

He looks down toward the duvet-covered box, and then back up. “You’ve got me there!”

She shoots him a triumphant look.

“But I wasn’t _emotionally_ ready,” he says. “Algernon jumped the gun!”

“And you’ve jumped the shark!”

“I don’t know what that means!”

“It means—god, James, the point is—you have a ring! And a plan!”

“Just in case!” He places his hand over the hidden box, as if for extra protection. “I wasn’t going to—it was for—well I don’t know when it was for. Later. Sometime. Not for a long time!”

“But you bought _a ring_.”

“Not true not true! Mum gave it to me the day after she met you—”

“ _What?_ ”

“—and she won’t take it back! I keep stashing it in different places around the palace but she keeps finding it and stuffing it back in my sock drawer.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Mad as it sounds, this is perfectly in line with Lily’s impression of the Queen of England.

Lily breathes out slowly. “Okay,” she says. “Right. Different matter entirely, then.” She glances at Algernon, who hops off the bed and wanders away. The she adds, “Your mum is devious, putting the Algernon string on there and everything.”

“Well,” James says sheepishly. “I did do that part.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said! Sort of. Maybe. The point is, _yes_ , I put the string on and taught Algernon what to do, but only because I thought it would take ages to get him to do it right!” He huffs. “I didn’t tell him to do it today, or tomorrow, or ever—I just told him…”

His fingers trace the stitching on the duvet while he gives a one-armed shrug.

“Someday,” she fills in.

“Yeah,” he admits in a low voice.

Lily’s mouth opens to respond, and then closes.

Her pulse is finally taking a break from its sprint, and her stomach has unclenched.

The thing is, it’s not absurd that he’s got a ring (was given a ring).

It’s not ludicrous that he’s thought about it (they’ve been dating for a year).

It’s not even preposterous that Algernon is involved in James’s proposal plans (Algernon has always been sour on fetching but sweet on Lily).

Despite all the baffling but existent logic around this, Lily feels like the bed’s been pulled out from under her, leaving her to fall arse-first onto the floor.

He has a _ring._

He has a _plan_.

Admittedly he’ll probably change plans now, when he really does it—

 _If_ he really does it.

No. With both a ring and a plan, it isn’t an if—it is a when. Marriage is now officially a real possibility.

“Lily.”

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see James crawl out from under the duvet so he could sit on his knees facing her.

He’s looking at her so sweetly. “Hey,” he says. “Hey.”

She blinks at him.

He slides his hands along her cheeks, fingers threading into her hair as he turns her face toward him. “Don’t stress about it.”

Without thinking, she says, “How can I not?”

His hazel eyes are so lovely and adoring behind those smudged glasses. Mischievous, too. That bit’s always there.

“Right,” he says. “Right, well, every time you start thinking, oh my god James needs to get married and we’re dating, I want you to think about…” His lips pull to the side as he contemplates. They’re so close she can see the faint chapping at the corners of his mouth. He’s always losing his lip balm. “WWED,” he announces.

She quirks an eyebrow. “What would…”

“Euphemia do.”

“Your mum. Your mum who bought me that ring.”

His hands drop to her shoulders. “Shite. Yes. Okay, that wasn’t what I was thinking. What I was thinking was—my mum is all about having fun and enjoying life and—snogging strangers, if I’m being honest, you should hear the stories—”

Lily has heard several and also not nearly enough.

“You want me to snog strangers?”

“You already do, technically, but it’s for work so whatever.”

“Fair point.”

“The rest, though. The attitude.” He’s rarely this earnest unless he’s talking about his cat.

It should be soothing but instead she tightens her hands in the duvet. “You’re saying to use you and leave you.”

“I mean….” He sighs. “I don’t know what I mean. And you’re being difficult on purpose.”

She absolutely is being difficult on purpose and he’s the only one who ever calls her on it. Maybe it’s because he’s a prince, or maybe he always would’ve been that way, a terrific match for her in every way.

“Yeah, no,” she says, “I know, I just…”

It’s just that even talking about marriage with him means beginning to talk about the end of her already illustrious career. That it means all the photoshoots and lack of privacy and glaring media attention without any of the fun and fulfillment of acting. That it means everyone only cares about her because of who she’s decided to spend the rest of her life with, and not for anything she’s done on her own.

 “I want to be with you,” he tells her. “Right now. And, like, for the foreseeable future, or whatever.”

He rests his forehead against hers, his breath brushing against her face. There have been blokes and girls before, but never like this, where happiness threads through her chest and her limbs just from being so close to someone. Today, though, it’s a bittersweet ache because she loves him, but….

He’s being so honest, and so should she.

She forces out the words: “But what if I never…. I mean, what if I can’t give up….”

She can’t even say the words _give up acting_ , it’s so antithetical to everything she’s been doing since her parents died.

His face scrunches up. “Then…that’s what you want.”

“It might not be,” she quickly adds, grabbing his hands where they’re still on her shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t—know.”

“I get it,” he says. “I _get_ it.”

And the believable thing is that he does.

He _does_.

She presses her mouth against his. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

“Now if that’s settled, let me distract you,” he says with a grin. “Let’s go do something that would make my mum proud.”

“We’re not shagging in Parliament.”

“No, okay, I’ve got a place in mind, right….”

* * *

 

# the fourth

The fourth time, the proposal almost comes when he’s not even looking at her.

She’s preparing for a gala in his room, which is not an entirely unfamiliar experience after two years. Some things she simply started to leave here. Others she thought she left behind, but even Algernon can’t scrounge them up for her. Such are the perils of having two residences in London. The security team she can adjust to, but not having her preferred brand of lip balm is an emergency.

Unlike her previous efforts in his room, this time James is preparing alongside her.

Or he was, anyway. He stopped after putting on his shirt and underthings, his bow-tie hanging unknotted around his neck.

Instead of finishing, he’s on his knees on the floor behind her, trying to entice Algernon into playing with a small toy mouse. Regardless of how James twitches the toy, though, Algernon continues to stare at him, unimpressed. James doesn’t seem to care he’s getting nowhere, but in fairness he’s patiently listening to her blather on about her upcoming role.

“And _then_ ,” she says, “I get to kiss her!”

She glances at him in the mirror. His hand freezes mid-jiggle of the toy.

“ _No_ ,” he says, meeting her reflected gaze. “Not really?”

“ _Yes_!” Lily swivels around in the seat she’s added in front of his mirror, clutching at her tube of mascara. “It’s all top-secret we’re going that way. At least for now. They’re just saying it’s an intense rivalry between two women.”

James is nodding along in awe, his mouth hanging open a bit. “Wow,” he says. “I didn’t—not that she _shouldn’t_ , I just…. They never let people be bi!”

“I _know_! And I get to play her!” Lily presses her mascara to her chest. “A bisexual pirate queen. _Me_!”

He bounds to his feet, letting the mouse toy drop to the floor. “That is fucking _amazing_.”

“I know. I mean, honestly, James. This is going to make so many people so happy. To see a bi girl playing a bi girl. And a character based on a real bisexual pirate, no less!”

“That’s absolutely incredible!” He picks up Algernon and spins in a circle, earning a displeased growl. James sets him on the floor, where Algernon darts toward Lily. “Think of all the little bi girls out there that’ll sneak into this movie without their parents’ permission.”

She beams as Algernon twines between her legs, purring madly. “And they’ll see themselves on the screen and realize they’re not alone, and that it’s normal, and—” She lets her hands fall to her lap as she swallows. “And to have these co-stars, and this production team, and the _funds_ to really do it properly—James, it’s going to be magical.”

He rushes over to place his hands on her shoulders, bends down, and kisses her with enthusiasm. When he pulls back his smile radiates pure affection and adoration, sheer happiness for her and what she’s going to do.

Elation pulses through her chest, warm and soft. She has the perfect role ahead of her. She has enough celebrity cache to finally out herself. She has the most supportive boyfriend in existence. Everything has been fitting together as tightly as a jigsaw lately and it almost seems unfair how happy she gets to be.

Besides being an emotionally intense, intimate moment, this particular physical position offers a fantastic view of that marvelous hollow at the base of his throat. It’s simply the icing on the five-tiered, artisan-made cake of her life.

“It’s a shame,” he says while straightening up, “that no real pirates will be able to see the movie.”

She tilts head backwards to frown at him. “Yes,” she says, “that’s the real shame here. That someone like a Somali pirate won’t be able to afford to see a movie about a queer pirate.”

“It’s not the price keeping them out,” he says solemnly. “It’s that it’s rated arrrrrr.”

She raises her hands to his chest and shoves him away, trying to suppress her laughter. “Oh my _god_ ,” she says. “Our date is canceled. You’re staying home from the gala.”

“Does the movie have an underwater musical number?” he asks, looking very serious. “More importantly, can I voice a sea animal hitting instruments made of other sea objects?”

She shakes with repressed laughter as she turns back to her make-up. “You’re going to make me late.”

Notably, he has no response.

“What?” she says.

He coughs. “Er.”

She hurriedly pushes her phone button to see the time. “Shit. _Shit_!”

“Yeah,” he says awkwardly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He says, without any facetiousness, “Because I love hearing you talk about your job.”

Her smile cannot be contained, even as she rushes through her mascara.

“It’ll have to do,” she says, checking herself one last time in the mirror.

He’s standing behind her with her dress draped over his arm.

“You’re forgiven,” she says as she grabs the gown. She shimmies into it, pulls the straps over her shoulders, and turns her back to him. “Zip me up?”

His bare feet pad against the floor until he’s so close she can feel the heat of his body against hers. His hands find the zipper at the dip in the bottom of her back, where they rest waiting, just for a moment. Then he starts tugging the zipper up at a leisurely pace, the closeness and the wait and the faint sound sending her into a shiver. Once her dress has neatly closed, his hands graze along her shoulder blades, then trace a parallel set of slow, lingering lines down her sides. His hands settle on her hips as he presses a kiss against the nape of her neck.

It’s not just her heart that swells, but her whole chest, filled to the brim with the utter perfection of this moment.

He takes a step back from her. “I was going to apologize for stealing the spotlight tonight,” he says, “but I’m hardly competition for you in that dress.”

She turns around and rewards him with a brief but heartfelt kiss. “You’re not stealing the spotlight if I give it to you.”

His smile fumbles. “Are you _sure_ you want me to go? This is your charity thing and I’m, well, me, and—”

She grabs onto his hands and lets them swing together at their sides. “You’ve already RSVP’d. Think of the insult you’d be giving if you didn’t follow through.”

“Bound by the ever-British requirement to be unfailingly polite.”

She hums in agreement and grins up at him. “There’s also the small matter of I want you there since I haven’t seen you in ages and I’m leaving soon. But that’s trifling.”

“Doesn’t hold a candle to the pressure of following societal norms.”

“Exactly. So we’ll just have to go and make this _our_ charity thing.”

She could describe the shape of his smile well enough to have an artist recreate it, but despite its familiarity, it never fails to make her heart sing.

“Ah, excellent.” He draws his hands out of hers and reaches for his trousers where they hang in the wardrobe. “With our combined star power, the charity will raise millions.”

“I have to admit, I was banking on your superior press draw.”

He tugs on his trousers. “You’re using me for charity money?”

“Unabashedly. It’s what Euphemia would do.”

“Yes, well,” he says, fiddling with the fastenings, “you could have that power, too, you know.”

She laughs. “If I stole your identity?”

“No, if you’d only—” He glances up at her, then pays renewed attention to his fly. “Never mind.”

Algernon meows from where he’s taken over her chair in front of the mirror, the noise lilting up at the end like a question.

Lily silently agrees with Algernon. Not because she doesn’t understand what James means. It’s because why oh why would he bring this up now, when they’re running late and they haven’t spent quality time together in ages and she was just having such a wonderfully lovely time?

“Sorry,” James mutters. He’s looking down as one hand plays with a loose end of his bow tie. “You know my mouth sometimes runs off without me.”

The marriage question is a giant floating house ready to crush Lily at any moment like the Wicked Witch of the East. Because Lily does feel like a witch for drawing this out for two years when the expectations for James are so clear-cut. And sometimes she can shove that house out of sight, out of mind, for good stretches of time, and she forgets she’s a witch at all, and then _bam_ , it comes slamming down to remind her that she’ll have to make a decision soon.

Not because James will force her into it. But because if she _doesn’t_ marry him, he has to start over with someone else. And he’s the only child of the king and queen, and the next person in line for the throne pinched Lily’s arse at the last Christmas party, and James is too decent to ever step down for her and let that predator on the throne.

And Lily would never, ever ask him to.

“No, don’t apologize,” she says, “it’s not—it’s not like we can keep _not_ talking about it...”

He tucks his thumbs into his pockets. “I, er, thought we kind of had. You know, when Algernon, and the box…”

“That was ages ago.”

“I mean, well, yeah, but…has anything changed?”

It’s a valid point. What _has_ happened in a year?

She’s won more awards. She’s grown as an actor by leaps and bounds thanks to working with some of the top people in the field. She’s had a scintillating conversation with Jordan Peele and he said he’d be in touch in a while.

But besides her career…

“We’re older,” she says uselessly.

“Right, but besides that, it’s all the same, yeah? I’m still, well, me, and you’ve got your pirate queens and princesses and—and I’m not _angry_ about that, okay, I get that that’s everything to you—”

“Not _everything_ —”

“But it’s—I’m trying to say I _get_ it. Fuck, Lily, I don’t—I’m trying to say I’m not pressuring you. I mean, sometimes my mouth is an idiot, but I really, _really_ don’t want to make you think I’m giving you a deadline or an ultimatum or anything—”

“No, you’ve never—I know you wouldn’t.”

He would have every right to, though. He has loads more riding on his shoulders than she does.

It’s not _fair_ , she thinks, resisting the urge to stomp her foot like a child. Her life’s become a five-tiered, artisan-made cake, but when it comes time to eat it, she’s only allowed to the cake or the icing—not both together. And who the hell wants cake without icing?

She presses two fingers to her hairline, unable to do something more drastic without ruining her updo or make-up.

“I want,” she begins, her strapless bra not helping with the tightness of her chest.  “I _want_ …”

Algernon meows loudly from the floor beside her. She glances down at him and her thoughts sputter to a halt.

There, between his sharp feline teeth, hangs a small plastic baggie.

He’s staring up at them expectantly.

“James?” she says uncertainly.

Neither of them says anything for a beat, and then another.

Then James goes, “ _Oh_!”

She raises her eyebrows at Algernon. “I see your fetching lessons have been going better?”

James shakes his head as he drops to a crouch and fishes the bag out of Algernon’s mouth. “Well, yes and no. He fetches, but only what he feels like.”

“Is it technically fetching, then?”

“Mm, debatable.” He stands up and holds out the baggie to Lily.

She sniffs.

A line forms on her forehead.

“Is that _bacon_?”

“Yeah.” James peels open the resealable bag and picks up a few bacon bits between his fingers. “See?”

She looks down at this baffling bag of bacon, then up at James, then down at Algernon.

“You know,” she says, “if there is an explanation, I might not want to know. It’s more entertaining if I don’t.”

James takes her hand and places the open bag in it. “It’s an apology gift.”

“From Algernon?”

“No, from me. Usually to him. But I would guess he thinks we should forgive each other…or he’s done something awful in the other room and is preemptively apologizing.” He pauses. “It’s probably not the latter. Preemptive apology isn’t his style.”

Lily blinks at him. “If only the press knew half of what you got up to in this palace.”

His mouth slashes into a real grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Well, as we’ve learned, reading online reactions can be entertaining. Especially when read aloud in dramatic voices.”

“Fair enough, there is that.” His eyes are alight. “But the secret is more fun, I think.”

She examines the rich-smelling bits of meat in her palm.

Even if the press learned about this, they’d never believe it. It’s too ridiculous to print.

But that’s James all over, isn’t it?

A knock sounds at the door.

 “You’re late,” comes McGonagall’s stern voice.

James grimaces. “No preamble from her?”

“We must really be running behind,” Lily agrees. Her eyes flit around the room to find somewhere to stash the bacon. Which sounds like an exceptionally bizarre euphemism, but isn’t.

James is already a few steps away from her, heading for his shoes. “Bring the bag,” he says. “Or Algernon won’t let me hear the end of it.”

With a bemused and amused smile on her face, Lily goes to her purse.

Bacon is one of many things she never expected to carry around in there, right up there with an entrance to Narnia or a snorkeling set.

She glances up at James, who’s slipping on his shoes while quietly arguing with Algernon.

The thing is, James isn’t wrong. Nothing has changed in a year—not really. Except that small, insignificant thing where she keeps finding new, unexpected sides to this marvelous man who wants nothing more than for her to be happy.

The hanging house hasn’t moved, and she hasn’t found a utensil that will let her eat her cake…but at least it’s all in stasis for now.

* * *

 

# the fifth

The fifth time it’s an accident.

She’s backstage amidst a flurry of hurrying celebrities and photographers, on call to present the Academy Award for Best Cinematography. People wearing black speak rapidly and sternly into their headsets as they try to manage who’s going where with which items at any given second.

The first time she attended the Oscars she had to keep from gaping at all the stars. The second time she had to present, which was somehow more nerve-wracking than being up for an award because she’d _definitely_ have to speak on stage. (Winning had seemed like a long shot. But she did have her speech ready. Just in case.)

The third and subsequent times, the ceremony was a chance to see old colleagues, and make bets with people about winners, and participate in silly bits with the host. The Oscars always required her full attention and several days of recovery.

Tonight, though, she keeps losing track of who she’s supposed to congratulate. Where she’s supposed to be. Which awards they’ve already given out.

There will be no partying for her tonight. It’s easier this year since she’s not up for anything, but it’s also something her agent Mary will strangle her for because it’s a fantastic opportunity to get word on the good work coming down the pike.

Instead of dancing in bare feet, heels long abandoned, tonight she will take the limo to the hotel, pry herself out of this dress, eat an entire pizza, and pass out in her bed.

After all, she’s a flight to catch tomorrow morning.

Sticking around town for a few days is de rigueur, but it’s been 82 days since she last saw James in person. Only the modern miracles of FaceTime and WhatsApp have been keeping her sane.

No, that’s an overstatement. They’ve been keeping her from starving but she’s certainly not anything like satiated. Not when she’s been a horrific eleven hours off GMT while filming in Hawaii for two months straight. As her day began, James’s ended, and there was only so much they could communicate in a text. And between their equally packed schedules, any phone calls they did manage were always short and ill-timed.

After six agonizing weeks of voice messages and texts that couldn’t convey the full story, her years-long resolve crumbled.

At a quarter past one in the morning, two and a half years after she’d first found the site…Lily opened Key Limes.

The graphics had improved. Probably because they had actual photos to work with now, and not just Photoshopped pictures of her and James together. Traffic had increased, too, since their relationship had become a reality instead of the figment of several thousand people’s imaginations.

The number of users listed on the side panel made her choke on her wine.

Right. Well. _That_ definitely didn’t help.

She soon made for the forums to find recent pictures of James, which definitely would.

Yes. This was what she was reduced to: stalking her boyfriend on a fan site.

Naturally they had a wonderful collection of photos of James on a walk with Algernon in the gardens, which Lily hadn’t found anywhere else. And another nice one of him leaning on Sirius’s shoulder, shaking with laughter.

Did she touch her laptop screen like a pathetic romcom character?

Yes. She did. And she planned to hoard that secret even better than she hid her success origin story.

Thus began an addiction. She would have been lying if she’d said that she hadn’t checked the site on her phone at the Oscars. In the loo, of course, and even that felt like tempting the tabloid gods.

Even now as she stands offstage, looking but not watching the show unfold, her fingers twitch, eager for another look. She knows all the fan sites now, and has discerned which ones provide new pictures the quickest.

(Key Limes isn’t the fastest, but it has a broader array, and more solid user analysis on the attractiveness of James.)

She was supposed to fly out in a week but this morning she changed her flight. She’ll go surprise James—who is going to be in London, according to the fan sites—and she’ll probably cry when she sees him and it’s going to be so embarrassing but so worth it.

Someone calls her name. She turns to see another black-clothed stage person giving her the two-minute sign. She nods at him, and then stills entirely.

There, just behind the headset guy, is someone who looks an awful lot like James. For two seconds she gawks at this incredible lookalike in a gorgeously-fitted tux.

But in the third second he catches her eye and grins at her, throwing her a thumbs up.

Time and space become antiquated notions.

There’s just her and _James_ and this miniscule yet unbearable distance between them.

Somehow she’s in front of him all of a sudden, somehow she’s kissing him, and somehow his hands are locking around her waist.

The heady scent of her boyfriend turns her lightheaded. Christ, she missed these shoulders and these hands and that _tongue_.

After an indeterminate amount of time, he places a hand on her chest and delicately pushes her back.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says breathily, eyes dancing as he takes in her face as eagerly as she does his.

She needs to say something—preferably something witty and funny to remind him of their chemistry—but her brain is still entirely dedicated to shouting _HE’S HERE HE’S HERE HE’S HERE_!

Her mouth says the truth that’s been on repeat in her body and her mind long enough that it hurts.

“I missed you.” She breathes it again and again as she peppers his face with kisses. “I missed you I missed you I missed you.”

His hands slide alongside her face as he kisses her deeply. “I missed you,” he says after. “So did Algernon.”

“Never again,” she says, letting her forehead rest against his, the air still thin in her lungs. “Never this long.”

She catches the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“So you’ll marry me?” he murmurs.

It comes out so quickly that she nearly misses it.

He doesn’t say it in a serious voice. It’s in his sly, meet-me-halfway, banter-with-me voice.

His voice that always asks her to be his partner, his match, his equal.

Someone clears his throat behind Lily.

The rest of the room roars back into existence.

Lily is clinging to the Prince of bloody England. Backstage. At the Oscars. Surrounded by celebrities and staff and, most importantly, _photographers_.

People are staring. They aren’t even pretending to whisper. And those camera lenses click wildly.

The headset man tells her, “You’re on.”

In front of Lily, James has turned as white as Algernon’s underbelly.

“Lily,” he says. “Lily, I’m sorry, I—”

“I’ve got to go!” she half-yelps, and begins powerwalking away.

Or as fast as she can, anyway. She can’t move fast in these heels and this tight gown but fuck fuck _fuck_.

This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

* * *

 

# the other first (and last)

She presents the award.

She knows because later she can watch the footage on YouTube, and yes, that’s her, reading the unfunny joke off the teleprompter. She stood there at the podium and said the right words and hugged the winner.

Who knew that all her years of acting would culminate in a performance as mundane as giving out an Oscar?

Funny enough, the moment in the footage where she disappears offstage is the same moment her memory picks back up. Her heart thrumming in her chest, her palms damp, her lungs constrained by both her dress and that tiny matter of an unintentional marriage proposal.

Because the thing is…she knows it’ll be the last one. If she says no this time, well—it’s been almost three years, and she can’t do this to him (or herself) much longer.

If longer at all.

He’s not far from her. In fact, he hasn’t moved since she left him. He’s a pale ghost in a crowd of professionally tanned people. His hands hang at his side, clutching again and again at empty air.

His eyes are trained on her. His absolutely apologetic, puppy dog eyes.

That same fog descends around her again. The acceptance speech stops booming in her ears. The person in black trying to talk to her fades to a blur. There’s just her, and James, and the short gap of well-tread floor between them.

It’s silly, really, how much time she’s spent agonizing over this subject. Over the pros and cons and those pesky little things called _feelings_ that smother pro and con lists into nonexistence.

She loves acting, yes. She loves getting people to think and sharing important stories and making people feel like they’re reflected on the screen. She can’t—absolutely _can’t_ —give all those things up.

She kicks off the heels that have dug grooves into her ankles and smooshed her toes together until they ache. They skitter off and land…somewhere. It doesn’t matter.

Her bare feet carry her directly to James.

She’s more than five feet away from him when his first “I’m sorry” spills out of his lips. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry,” he says as she takes his hands and holds them up between them. “I swore I’d never pressure you and I did, just now, I did it, and I said I wouldn’t but I did and you should pretend I never came here, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to ask it until I meant it—”

“Did you mean it?”

He blinks once, and then twice. “Did I—I mean…” His lips purse together in that adorable, perplexed way he has when he’s lost track of the words hurrying out of his mouth before he knows he’s going to say them. “Er, what do you mean?”

She gazes into those sweet, confused hazel eyes. “Do you want to marry me?”

“I—I mean, it doesn’t matter what I want, it matters what you want, and I’d never force you to choose now, I want you to be ready, to really understand your options—”

“No,” she says, her mind ethereally calm. “James. I’m asking. Will you marry me?”

Her heart beats out a quick, steady rhythm in her chest as she waits.

Because she can’t give up those things she loves…and she doesn’t have to. Everything but the acting she can do as his wife. Or at least, the acting people know is acting. She’ll still have to keep her face straight when dignitaries and members of the public make a gaffe, or the press asks a rude question, or a paparazzo gets in her face.

She’ll be the first openly non-straight royal and it’s going to be miserable but also amazing. She can represent people and highlight causes and try to undo some of the harm her country’s inflicted on the world.

James’s mouth, ever on the quick, half-opens but does not speak. His glasses, always too loose, shift slightly as he tilts his head. His hands, never far from hers, tighten around hers almost imperceptibly.

If he weren’t as sharp as her, she would not love him. But he is.

Still, she doesn’t think it’s wit so much as shock that has him glancing at their hands and saying, “But you haven’t got a ring.”

A laugh bubbles out of her. “I’m sorry I didn’t adopt a stray cat, train it to fetch things, and give it a custom-made ring box.”

He exhales deeply and leans in toward her. “I love you,” he murmurs. “You’re a miracle. You’re incredible. You’re a goddess.”

“So marry me,” she tells him through a grin.

“Will that make me a god?”

She lifts onto her toes to kiss that stupid joke away from his perfect lips. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says, and kisses him again.

His hands wander away from hers to wrap around her waist and pull her closer. “I love you,” he says. “I love you I love you I love you—”

“I know. I _know_.”

“No, you don’t even—you don’t get it. It’s over!”

He’s too delighted for this to be the bad news some other people might interpret in that context.

“What?” she says, smiling cautiously.

“No more gold stars!” He kisses the tip of her nose. “McGonagall said once I got married we could stop—”

“Oh my god.” Lily’s laughter will not be shoved down. “Oh my _god_.”

“I know. _Finally_!”

“Did I tell you I love you?” she says. “Because I do. And I will never make you work for gold stars.”

“Ah, you marvel.” His face is so close to hers, this royal profile, this funny face that always makes her laugh. “In that case, yes. I will marry you.”

“You’re just marrying me so you can become a god.”

“You’ve caught me.” He tightens his grip momentarily. “Let’s get married anyway.”

“Yeah,” she says, her heart soaring. She’s waited too long to say it and yet also just long enough: “Yes.”


End file.
